


Fallout

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Against better judgement Mohinder and Sylar are teamed up together to track down a potentially destructive Special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallout

_“And you’ll be lost   
Every river that you tried to cross   
Every gun you ever held went off   
Ooh oh and I’m just waiting till the firing stops   
Ooh oh and I’m just waiting till the shine wears off” _  
**-Coldplay, **_**Lost **_

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Mohinder asks as frustration highlights his annoyance.

Keeping his back turned Sylar rolls his eyes then drags them along the furniture of the empty cabin while mentally making note of every crook and crevice. “I swear Mohinder if you ask me that one more time—,”

Mohinder does not let him finish before raising the cellphone back to his ear. “He insists that his little drawing is correct so it would seem we’re stuck here…that was your decision not mine…as if you know anything about it…listen here Bennet…no…no!…when you told me about working with him I should have walked away…yes I could have…I can’t believe I agreed to it…”

“Give me the phone,” Sylar says turning around to face Mohinder.

“Well no offense, but if you’re in charge…” Mohinder ignores the demand, far too wrapped up in his argument with Bennet.

Without hesitation or a second request Sylar reaches out his right hand and pulls the phone from Mohinder along an invisible line across the room. Once it is firmly in hand Sylar condescendingly raises an eyebrow and tilts his head at his glaring partner. “It’s the right place Bennet…I’m never wrong…it wouldn’t be a complete day without him contradicting me…he’s trying to assert some semblance of power…I told you that you should have come with me and stuck him with Petrelli…mmmm…not likely…bye.”

“May I have my phone back?” Mohinder says with a clenched jaw.

Sylar eyes him and shuts the phone off. “That depends—are you going to call _Peter_ to complain about how unfair your life is?”

“No. Whining about entitlement to a different life is your M.O.” Mohinder says, testy at the tactical operation not panning out “Now would you give me the bloody phone.”

With an unannounced rapidity of movement Sylar sends the phone back across the room. Mohinder catches it before it slams into his chest with a startled, “Oh” and wide eyes. Sylar twists up the right corner of his mouth in a mini snarl and begins to move around the room again, heading toward an open bedroom door. Bracing his hands on either side of the doorframe Sylar peers inside the other room before continuing his investigation of the living room.

In strained silence they move about the layout mindful of (avoiding) each other while still trying to ascertain information on the owner of the cabin, Daniel Leveritt. Sylar comes to a stop in front of a jam-packed floor to ceiling bookcase with books packed on top of each other every which way. Near to him Mohinder fingers a mess of handwritten and typed papers that sit piled on top of the writing desk. Besides bills and a faded, edges tattered, photograph of a young couple with a little boy (and the date July 1978 scribbled on the back) the majority of papers seem to be Daniel’s confused mind spilled out haphazardly.

_Talking shadow man speaks in tongues…Smith and Sons grocery store harbours the gateway…civilization is blind to passwords of hidden bricks…Sylvie…04/01/10 = don’t be late…_

Mohinder puts own one of the papers and reaches into his messenger bag to retrieve his digital camera. Holding it steady with both hands he lines up the image of the papers in the viewing screen and snaps a few evidentiary photos. Lowering the camera Mohinder furrows his brow in curiosity and his eyes drift over to the family photo. He transfers the camera to his left hand and gingerly picks up the photo for inspection, this time gazing more attentively at the image that stares back.

The little that they know of Daniel (still important enough for The Company to keep highly secured notes and thereby of paramount interest to the newly formed Resistance trying to work covertly against them) says he is dangerous, possibly—_worriedly_—unintentionally. The family frozen in time speaks of the other life that no longer exists. The smiles were real once upon a time.

The hair on the back of Mohinder’s neck rises and he is not sure if it is the broken specter of a dead past or Sylar walking by close behind him that his body reacts to defensively. Shifting his feet to push back the irritation he feels with himself Mohinder zones in on the image. The young couple seems content, with measured but sweet smiles. The child version of Daniel (he suspects) grins a toothy smile as if in the middle of a laughing. Mohinder wonders if they would have done anything differently had they known then what would happen as life unfolded. One thought leads to another and he wonders if he would have done anything differently when Chennai housed his dreams. The answer is known before the question is completed.

“Anything of interest?” Sylar breaks through his contemplations.

Mohinder looks over at Sylar who is watching him closely and puts the photograph back on the desk. “Not much that will tell us where he is or what he’s capable of.”

“Great,” Sylar mutters and walks to the kitchen. He begins opening and closing cupboards while sneaking subtle glances at Mohinder who is still carefully reading notes at the desk.

Sylar’s insistence that he and Mohinder not work together resides in a half-truth. Strictly business wise Bennet is the better partner for Sylar. They both know where they stand with each other—meaning every man for himself. Little emotion is involved besides their personal dislike for each other. Methodical in nature they are efficient and undeterred.

The same cannot be said for Mohinder. With every decision made, each road traveled, every motivation contemplated, even logical debates that flare up regularly, they reside in the entanglement of twisted emotions. Each step of the way Mohinder proves a challenge and the gambit slows what should be a constant progression for Sylar. The questioning frustrates Sylar in the way it slows him down, forcing him to defend and argue a position; in the way he cannot simply do as he pleases, because with Mohinder Sylar also feels the trapping hooks of his own emotions reaching back.

When he is not in such a rush of go-go-go, Sylar enjoys their battles. They lend validity to his purpose. Looking at Mohinder now it seems strange how fast they had connected in a dead cold winter, strangers at first sight yet familiar by the second breath and then enemies in the blink of an eye, so long ago.

Banging cupboards closed Sylar pays little attention to their contents. He knows something is off in the cabin and seeing Mohinder shift his shoulders in mindless discomfort and jerk his arm back and forth awkwardly as if trying to ward off a ticklish shiver tells Sylar that he notices it as well. Sylar tunes his hearing but cannot distinguish anything of notice besides the most excruciatingly faint buzz of something indecipherable.

He opens the cupboard above the stove and stares at nothing but a stack of pots. He glances over at Mohinder who happens to look his way at the same time. Quickly Sylar stares at the pots again. It is as much an effort to remain antagonistic with Mohinder as it is to fall into an easy and amicable discussion with him. The latter is preferred, however, so Sylar does his best to not give into it.

Closing the cupboard Sylar turns to face Mohinder and watches him fidget and turns his neck briefly, a flinch of annoyance on the surface. Sylar’s eyes spark with a thundering hypothetical assumption and he settles on approaching it in a roundabout way. “You think he’s all that different from the rest of us?”

Caught up in his own wondering thoughts Mohinder does not pay attention to the taunting tone Sylar directs his way. “No actually I don’t,” Mohinder says shuffling a few papers in his hands and he resettles his direct attention to Sylar. “I was thinking how many of us—Special,” he gestures with his right hand still holding the papers towards Sylar, “and Unspecial,” he gestures to himself, “started with such humble beginnings.”

“So what, you think you can save him?” Sylar keeps a tough edge to his voice.

“You thought I could save you once,” Mohinder says, returning the aggressiveness directed his way.

“Look how well that turned out,” Sylar says not backing down from the verbal attack, but the memory of a vulnerable time when he reached out to the only person he could—to no avail—flares a genuinely angry flush along his skin.

Mohinder tosses the papers to the desk with a sigh. “I doubt I could save him, he’s too far gone. I’ve never been good at it anyway. You’re not the only one who can attest to that.”

An awkward silence falls between them and Sylar continues pretending to investigate the kitchen while Mohinder moves to look out the window. Finally Sylar asks, “Did his notes say _anything_ that could be useful?”

Mohinder turns around the last remnants of sunlight stream in broken beams around him. “Just random thoughts…but fascinating all the same. I’d actually love the opportunity to speak with him.”

Mohinder steadies his gaze on Sylar and adds, “To find out what makes him _tick_.”

Sylar glowers at the personal jab. “So you can bottle him up for some specimen collection in which we’re all interchangeable? Just another number, right?”

Being with Sylar is a trying experience for Mohinder. He never knows which angle Sylar will approach him from. Conversational is as likely as confrontational, understanding is as possible as belligerent. Mohinder feels little rest with Sylar at his side, but it is easier to disguise such trepidation when Bennet or Peter is around. Unexpectedly it is easiest when Nathan is present because Mohinder can focus most of his obvious attention on the publicly dead but secretly alive man (who has no real tie to Sylar beyond Peter) whom Mohinder has developed an unanticipated camaraderie with since their badly mishandled first meeting.

Being alone with Sylar puts Mohinder on edge. There is the fact that Sylar with his powers restored from a year earlier could do anything to him if the tide was to turn. And yet he has not tried—so far. Blistering words have taken the place of bruising fingers and their heated animosity bursts forth with verbal assaults of contradictions. Rolling eyes, teasing inflections, stern body language that crosses paths but does not budge, are the worst of the physical attack. Mohinder’s willingness to put killing Sylar on backburner is his own pledge to move forward.

It does not exist in a vacuum however. Sylar is still the most fascinating person Mohinder has ever known and only half of that are his remarkable abilities. The other pertinent and echoing half is that Mohinder cannot picture his life without Sylar in it in some fashion. When it comes down to the intellectual minefield filled terrain that Mohinder mulls over Sylar is the only person he can talk over points with, who _gets_ it, no matter how hard Matt and Peter try to grasp those finer points. For Mohinder, Sylar _is_ one of the finer points as he matches his stride, basking in awe of shared discoveries or lie, amused and irritated at the same turn of events. Sylar makes him feel less alone in his journey but Mohinder cannot, _will not_, show that dependant weakness. It is not that Mohinder cannot kill Sylar; it is that he no longer wishes to with the verve that once drove his need for vengeance.

To atone for such an inexplicable change within Mohinder tries to remain distant. It is doable although easier said than done. How Sylar, of all people, should become the one person to irrevocably change Mohinder’s life for good and bad is the bane of his restless days and strangely deep sleeps. It should be the other way around, but it isn’t.

“Don’t fret Sylar, you’re still zero on the list,” Mohinder says in a deadpan tone as he shifts his eyes to the dusty fireplace mantel and shivering off an irritant pressure on his back as he walks over, avoiding penetrating eyes.

“Snippy, snippy. Uncomfortable much?” Sylar says rudely, drawing attention to Mohinder’s almost spastic movements.

Keeping his eyes averted Mohinder mutters, “This place gives me a bad feeling.”

“Should I call in Petrelli for reinforcement, to hold your hand?” Sylar says having fun playing out a variety of points on which to make fun of Mohinder.

With one hand resting on top of the mantel Mohinder stares at Sylar. “Still feeling jealous that he’s everything you’re not?” Mohinder says reactively to the challenge, tired of this particular line of questioning. “These hang ups with Peter—are you sure they’re not rooted in something sexual? You may want to get that diagnosed.”

Sylar grimaces at the suggestion as he walks out of the kitchen. “Jealous? He can hardly control a sneeze.”

“Yet you can’t stop talking about him, constantly bringing up my friendship with him,” Mohinder says lowering his arm and making a face at the thick collection of dust on his fingers.

Sylar’s mouth hangs agape dumbfounded at the assertion, as valid as it may be. “I don’t bring him up—,”

“Really? Because I can think of—,”

“He’s always around, whining, showing off.”

“And you’re all modesty?” Mohinder asks incredulously. “You’re both constantly in competition, trying to one up each other. At least his reasoning is less selfish.”

Mohinder’s elevation of Peter has always been a sore point for Sylar who has made it one of his duties to bring his closest physical competition to his knees. “Wow, blindly deifying Peter while ignoring his faults,” Sylar says. “I’d never expect that from you Mohinder.”

Mohinder scoffs at the sarcasm and says, “I’m not blind Sylar but I do know how to look for the truth at someone’s core.”

“Save the platitudes,” Sylar says as he steps closer.

“They’re not platitudes—,”

“You treat him like he’s breakable, like he needs to be cared for, when _he_ should be the one watching over—,” Sylar snaps his mouth shut.

For the second time an awkward silence stifles a stagnant air around them. Their eyes hold briefly until Mohinder looks away to the floor, then back up and says, “I—I don’t need you’re…protection.”

“I wasn’t offering it,” Sylar says impulsively after a small hesitation. “But you’re the one who’s a vulnerability to us.” He raises his right hand and twitches his index finger. Mohinder shakes off the invisible scrape along his back as Sylar toys with his already edgy state.

“Ever the poor sport,” Mohinder says and he rolls his eyes. “You don’t like what you hear so you resort to any handy manipulations. You know the rules!”

Sylar rolls his eyes in response and turns on his heels, making his way to the bedroom. He can hear Mohinder moving to follow him (to surely continue the lecture) and with a quick flick of his wrist behind him he tangles Mohinder’s steps. The only thing that keeps Mohinder from crashing to the floor is his quick reflex in grabbing for the armrest of the sofa to his left.

“Sylar!” he says.

Sylar grins to himself at the snappish tone and keeps walking. “Not everyone is going to follow the rules Mohinder,” he calls out behind him. Entering the bedroom he immediately knows there is nothing to be found there, but for a show of face (and to avoid continuing the Peter conversation) he goes through the motions of looking around anyway. The room has a sterile quality to it, like someone used it for a purely functional purpose such as sleeping but did not really live there.

A double bed is situated at the center of the room with two flattened pillows at the head and a thin gray wool blanket across the surface. A window with faded yellow curtains is to Sylar’s right and a wooden chair oddly sits in front of it. His best guess is that Daniel has used the window as a lookout for defense—or an offensive tactical move. Sylar moves towards it and places the palm of his right hand on the seat but only the most miniscule traces of heat remain suggesting Daniel may have just taken off before they arrived.

A three drawer, dark wood, dresser is against the left wall with an intricate lace patterned throw across the top, but nothing else. To the right of the dresser is a closet. Quick steps propel Sylar to the closed door and opening it he finds it half filled with generic clothes (jeans, black pants, flannel shirts) and half filled with empty hangers. Closing the door Sylar gives a moment thought then, still holding the doorknob, he melts the lock and freezes the metal so that the door remains permanently closed.

Facing the room again Sylar looks at the small shaded lamp on the night table next to the bed. It happens fast but still he notices the light flicker and an almost inaudible hum of electricity similar to what he had heard in the living room. His eyes travel a steady inquisitive trail along the contours of the room—the bed, far wall, window, door—and head back to the lamp. Sylar makes a twisting motion with his left hand and a stop gesture with his right. The lamp cracks inwards, silently. No longer a potential distraction Sylar listens to Mohinder in the next room.

Mohinder looks to the window then down to his watch and sighs. He rolls his head back, and side-to-side, trying to work the tired kinks out. Exhaustion is emphasized in the slow shifting of his shoulders up and down and the readjustment of his bag strap. He has no idea where Daniel has gone or if he is even coming back. He turns his head to look over his left shoulder toward the bedroom door, his body follows two seconds later. He cannot hear Sylar and he wrinkles his brow in concentration. “Anything in there?” Mohinder calls out.

A curious few seconds pass before Sylar says, “No—just another insignificant person’s bedroom.”

Mohinder sighs and moves forward. Stepping wrong his right foot nearly gives out awkwardly, painfully, below him. After a sharp intake of breath he jokes, “You’re not just saying that to avoid me asking more questions?” while cautiously pressing his hurt foot back to the ground.

Not hearing any reply form Sylar Mohinder tests his body weight confused as to how he had twisted it in the first place. Half distracted he loudly says, “I think Bennet put us together because he can’t stand either of us.”

“Probably,” is Sylar’s absentminded reply from within the other room.

“Of course,” Mohinder says without waiting for Sylar’s response. “You did try to kill Claire—more than once…”

“You shot him in the face,” Sylar says with the confrontational edge back in his voice.

“He didn’t give me a choice,” Mohinder says in a quieted defensive of his past actions, but he still feels the twinge of anxiety from having to make such a call. “If I had to do it again…I honestly thought he was going to shoot…”

A sharp jab strikes him in the stomach bending him half over with his hands at his gut. “Ow!” Mohinder hisses then utters, “Was your maturity stunted at the age of twelve? You can dish it out but you can’t take it?” Straightening up he sees Sylar appear in the bedroom doorway watching him with narrowed, darkened eyes and a firmly set jaw.

Mohinder pulls himself up straight. “Oooh, you can trip me up or inflict bruises from the other room. How impressive,” he says. “So nice to see your powers put to such good use.”

The sarcasm that Mohinder muscles forth does not move Sylar from his position in the doorway. “You know Mohinder one day your mouth is going to get you into a lot of trouble.”

“Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?” Mohinder asks in disbelief.

“I’m simply stating an inevitability,” Sylar says. “You only grasp a certain percentage of what’s going on but you speak as some authority.”

Mohinder scowls at the rebuke. “My research—,”

“Is just that: research. You know more than John Q. Public but it’s still nowhere near an exact science. You’re still in the trial stage.”

“So I should just shut my mouth—,”

“That would be a start.”

Mohinder pauses momentarily at the insult before continuing. “So I should say nothing and keep my head buried in my work while letting those of you with questionable motives—like you, like Bennett—do as you wish?”

“It would certainly make it easier for you,” Sylar starts.

“I don’t need it to be easy for me,” Mohinder says in frustration and he walks, with a slight limp, over to the window.

Sylar watches his back and staunchly says, “I’m trying to alleviate the pressure you insist on shouldering—things that are far beyond your control.”

Mohinder spins around and yells, “Don’t! I’ll carry that. Someone needs to look out for those who don’t know what’s happening, those who may be unknowing targets.”

Stomping forward Sylar settles behind the sofa and places his right hand on top of the backrest. “Your selflessness is moving,” he jeers eliciting rolled eyes from Mohinder, “or are you still trying to avenge your father?”

“Don’t you dare speak of my father,” Mohinder says walking back towards the center of the living room, stopping midway between the window and the sofa, tensing his shoulders.

“Are you doing what he should have done? What he _wouldn’t _have done?”

“I don’t know what he would have done, you made sure of that!”

“You’re not like him Mohinder.”

Exasperated Mohinder’s voice gets louder and he pulls his left shoulder forward, free from an aching pull he feels in it. “I know that. He was the risk taker who walked away from everything to strike out at what he believed in. I’m just trying to fit my feet in his footsteps.”

“You’re a risk taker,” Sylar says keeping his eyes squarely on Mohinder’s with unwavering focus. “He tried to wash his hands of it all when things got too real, when his theories were no longer abstract ideas, when they took on a life of their own outside of his machines and prodding labs. But you dive in headfirst—for complete strangers— knowing the consequences could be deadly! You’re reckless and going to get yourself killed.”

“I don’t see how that’s a problem for you,” Mohinder says trying to deflect attention form the reprimand and possible admiration of Sylar’s words. “I should think you’d find that a welcome prospect.”

“On most days I do but then who would entertain me by trying to keep up?” Sylar says not meaning it, but unable to back down from the heated fight. He rubs his forehead languidly and attempts to refocus.

“Right. I’m the court jester in your kingdom,” Mohinder says with disgust at such an unbelievable suggestion.

“More like a pawn,” Sylar says trying for a vaguely lighthearted turn, “or if I’m willing, a conspiratorial ally.”

“Until all your threatening enemies are gone and it’s time to turn on your own circle,” Mohinder says, partially joining in on Sylar’s amused train of thought while still countering it. “Beware of those closest to you.”

“Don’t you forget that,” Sylar says and he locks his eyes with Mohinder longer than should be comfortable.

Abruptly Mohinder lets out a gasping wheeze and brings his hands to his throat as a painful but relatively superficial incision cuts across the skin. Wide-eyed, Mohinder croaks out, “Sylar,” in surprise.

In less than a second Sylar crosses the floor and Mohinder wonders if this is the end always in store for him as pain shoots through his body. Sylar stretches out his left arm to the right of Mohinder’s body and twists his hand into a clenching grasp around something un-seeable. His fingers contract a bit, initiating a death grip squeeze and suddenly Mohinder sees a man appear. His neck in Sylar’s hands begins turning red, the colour rushing up through his face. His eyes bulge as oxygen is kept out of reach and Sylar’s telekinesis keeps him from raising his hands or legs to fight back.

“Mohinder,” Sylar says casually yet forcefully, never taking his attention from his captive.

Quick to understand the unexpected appearance of Daniel Leveritt, Mohinder rushes unsteady hands into his bag and pulls out a readied syringe with a potent sedative. He plunges it into Daniel’s left bicep and Sylar lets go, allowing the man to fall unconscious to the floor. Mohinder and Sylar stare at the unconscious body.

“He was here the whole time?” Mohinder asks and without waiting for an answer shifts startled eyes to Sylar. “Did you know he was here all this time?”

Sylar returns the gaze; his own eyes carry a mirthful twinkle. “Not quite. Almost.”

“Couldn’t you hear him?” Mohinder asks curiously with a panicked tone.

Sylar shakes his head and looks down at Daniel. “I don’t know how he did it but it was as if he could fly below my radar.”

“Then what made you suspect…” as Mohinder’s thoughts catch up with the replay in his mind of everything that has happened since arriving at the cabin his focus goes back to Daniel. “He was the one messing with me…”

“Mostly,” Sylar says and, catching Mohinder’s eye, gives him a small teasing smile.

Mohinder does not see the humour in the potentially dangerous situation and reacts with an indignant, “He could have killed me! Were you waiting to see how far he would go? Were you trying to coax him into attacking me?”

Sylar cocks his head to one side and tries to read through Mohinder’s worried, and slightly annoyed, expression. Noticing that Mohinder’s normally excessively blatant resentment of working together is coupled now with his vehement insistence that he trusts Sylar to have his back, Sylar cannot help but smile.

“I’m thrilled this is funny to you,” Mohinder says pointing to his wounded throat.

“He wasn’t going to hurt you,” Sylar says swiftly.

Again Mohinder points to his throat and says, “Really?”’

Sylar wipes the smile from his face and leans close into Mohinder’s space, not breaking eye contact. In all seriousness he lowly rumbles, “I wouldn’t let him hurt you.”

Mohinder swallows nervously at the undisputable authenticity in Sylar’s tone and steps back but Sylar stops him with a quiet, “Hold on.”

Sylar reaches his left hand to Mohinder’s neck and gently wraps his fingers around it, feeling the torn skin and the thin spill of blood below. Mohinder’s startled eyes soften as the pain dissipates and the injury reconfigures into unblemished skin. Sylar looks up from his healing touch to meet Mohinder’s gaze.

Dropping his hand Sylar says, “Good as new.”

Mohinder awkwardly clears his throat and offers a soft, “Thank you.”

Both men shift their focus to other parts of the room until Sylar says, “You should probably call Bennet for clean up.”

“Of course,” Mohinder shakes his head in agreement at the suggestion as if out of a trance and pulls his phone out of his bag. He dials Bennet’s number while walking to the window.

Sylar looks down at Daniel and for his own pleasure flicks a finger and sends the man zooming across the floor into the legs of the desk. He then brings the body forward a foot before raising it four feet off the floor and letting it slam down hard.

“Sylar!” Mohinder says in a harshly spoken reprimand only to receive a dismissive shrug of Sylar’s shoulders in return. “Bennet…you can send in Fleming…won’t The Haitian do that?”

Sylar reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Unraveling it he grins and redirects his attention to Mohinder.

“Yes, Daniel just—uh—turned up,” Mohinder says and crinkles his eyes at Sylar’s jovial expression. _‘What?’ _he mouths at Sylar while trying to pay attention to Bennet’s words. “Yes Bennet…we’re on our way as soon as Fleming shows up…”

Sylar holds the paper up in his left hand and uses his right hand to encourage Mohinder forward with curious steps. Handing the paper over Sylar watches his expression. Mohinder stares at it, ignoring Bennet, then looks down at Daniel. Again he stares at the drawing then gazes at Daniel. Bashfully Mohinder eyes Sylar and says, “Don’t say it…no, not you Bennet…Yes…bye.”

Hanging up the phone Mohinder stares at the drawing. Sylar moves to step by him but not before a taunting whisper of, “I told you so.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
